Half-formed thoughts hurtling through her mind, she studied the stranger. Mr. Evans shared the burglar’s height but not his bright gold hair. This man’s hair was dull brown. His hair was the only dull thing about him. His face was lean and distinguished. His jaw was firm and determined. His clothing was remarkably elegant, for all that he dressed for the country.
What a fool she was to imagine a fleeting similarity. The Duke of Sedgemoor would hardly play host to a sneak thief. Her nerves were still on edge after the break-in.
“He didn’t mention your call,” Genevieve said steadily.
Mr. Evans turned to Genevieve and dark blue eyes, guileless as the sky, surveyed her top to toe. Lord Neville inspected her in a similar manner at every meeting. This time instead of aversion, she felt a frisson of feminine awareness. Every nerve tightened with warning. This man had predator stamped all over him.
“Is this an inconvenient time? I can come another day.” A quizzical expression lit Mr. Evans’s face and Genevieve realized he’d misunderstood her scowl. Apparently awkward social behavior at the vicarage wasn’t confined to the maid. Color pricked at her cheeks.
“Mr. Evans, I’m—”
A storm of screeching and hissing drowned her answer. Hecuba, her aged black cat, leaped onto Genevieve’s shoulder, dug her claws in, then launched herself at the high shelf lined with china plates. The dog barked once, then settled at his master’s heel.
“Good God!” Lord Neville jumped back. Aunt Lucy shrieked and cowered against her chair. Mr. Evans, who had until now struck her as a rather languid gentleman, moved with impressive speed to save a blue and white Delft plate that Genevieve had always hated.
“I’ll put Sirius outside,” he said calmly, handing her the dish.
The dog regarded her with reproach. He was behaving perfectly, so she felt like a traitor when she agreed. “That might be wise.”
“But first I’ll rescue your cat.”
“Hecuba doesn’t like men,” Genevieve said quickly, but Mr. Evans had already reached up. To her astonishment, Hecuba dived into his arms as fast as a gannet plunged into the sea after a herring.
“I see that,” he said solemnly. Somehow she knew that beneath his grave demeanor, he laughed at her.
“How bizarre,” she said, momentarily distracted from the chaos. Even from a few feet away, Genevieve heard purrs of delight as the big, lean man cradled Hecuba to his dark brown coat. She’d rescued Hecuba as a kitten from neighborhood lads attempting to set fire to her tail. Since then, the cat couldn’t abide the touch of any human male.
With a gentleness that made Genevieve’s foolish heart skip a beat, Mr. Evans passed Hecuba across. Hecuba’s reluctance to forsake her new beau was audible. The man snapped his fingers at the dog. “Come, Sirius. Outside.”
Genevieve still recovered from her odd reaction to the sight of those capable, deft hands handling her cat. She bent over Hecuba, hoping that nobody noticed that the usually unruffled Genevieve Barrett was indisputably ruffled.
Who was this fellow? Gentlemen of such address never came within her orbit. Or her father’s. Well, apart from the Duke of Sedgemoor. But he was so far beyond her touch, he hardly counted as a mortal man. Lord Neville might be wellborn, but he lacked the newcomer’s polish.
“Let Sirius stay.” She cursed her breathless tone. What on earth was wrong with her? At twenty-five, she was well past the giggly stage. Yet Mr. Evans had an extraordinary effect on her. He made her feel as though her world span out of control. And he’d done it with an ease that she couldn’t help resenting.
The man glanced at her and the laughter in his eyes stirred another shiver of awareness. She straightened against unwelcome giddiness. Mr. Christopher Evans was far too charming for his own good.
Or for hers.
“Thank you. He really is well trained.” As if to prove it, he clicked his fingers again and Sirius trotted to his side. Once more, Genevieve was struck by the contrast between the man’s breeding and the dog’s disreputable appearance.
“Allow me to make introductions.” She hoped Mr. Evans wouldn’t notice the catch in her voice, but she had a sinking feeling that he knew his power over susceptible women—among whom, apparently, she must count herself.
“This is my father’s friend, Lord Neville Fairbrother.” Genevieve couldn’t help contrasting Lord Neville’s blunt, swarthy features with Mr. Evans’s spare elegance.
“I hope I’m your friend too, Genevieve,” Lord Neville sniffed. He gave the stranger a distinctly condescending nod. “Evans.”
“Lord Neville.”
“And I’m Genevieve Barrett. Please sit down, Mr. Evans.” Her aunt had abdicated her duties as hostess in exchange for the delights of ogling their visitor. “I’ll ring for tea.”
“Thank you.” With a flourish, he settled on the spindly chair beside her aunt. The dog, as promised, behaved perfectly and lay at his side without glancing at Hecuba.
“My father is on parish duties.” Genevieve retreated to the window seat, still cuddling Hecuba.
The man smiled and Genevieve’s heart, which had almost settled into its usual rhythm, jumped again. Handsome? Mr. Christopher Evans, whoever he was, was downright beautiful.
“No matter. I hoped to extend my acquaintance in the neighborhood.”
Her skin prickled with preternatural warning. This didn’t sound good. This didn’t sound good at all. This sounded like he wasn’t just passing through. She wasn’t usually at the mercy of animal instinct, but every atom insisted that Mr. Evans wasn’t what he seemed. The moment he’d spoken, her heart had known him for a liar. And just what was he doing in Little Derrick?
“You’ll find no entertainment in this backwater,” Lord Neville said snidely as he resumed his chair.
“La, Lord Neville, you are unkind.”
Genevieve cringed at her aunt’s archness.
“Not at all.” He barely disguised his derision. “Beyond our scholarly circle, there’s precious little of interest.”
“His Grace recommended the scenic beauties of this corner of Oxfordshire.” Mr. Evans focused on Genevieve with intent that even a bluestocking couldn’t misread. “He didn’t exaggerate.”
Stupid, stupid blushes. She tried to hold Mr. Evans’s gaze, but her nerve failed and she stared out the window. She could already tell that he was an accomplished flirt. Even when the only female within reach was tall, awkward Genevieve Barrett with her ink-stained fingers.
Her hands tightened in Hecuba’s silky coat. The cat complained and wriggled free. Ignoring the dog, she twined around the furniture to leap into Mr. Evans’s lap. Immediately those hard capable hands curled around the black cat. Genevieve suppressed another discomfiting reaction.
A rattle along the back lane diverted her troubled thoughts. “Papa is here.”
“Excellent,” Lord Neville said. “He promised to show me that illuminated manuscript Carruthers sent.”
“I hear it’s a peach.” Mr. Evans’s enthusiasm wouldn’t shame the keenest medievalist.
Shocked, Genevieve met his brilliant eyes. “You’re an antiquarian, Mr. Evans?”
The doubt in her question had her aunt frowning. Poor Aunt Lucy. She’d lived at the vicarage since her sister’s death fifteen years ago, and she’d spent most of